The Art of Fainting
by carnifax
Summary: Harvey/Mike. Five times Mike fainted, and the one time it was Harvey hitting the floor.
1. Not Quite As Funny Bone

**The Art of Fainting**

Suits  
>HarveyMike  
>Rated T<br>Hurt/Comfort | Romance  
>Written for Suits-a-thon.<p>

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><p>The first time it happened, Mike wasn't sick, or drunk, or high, or tired.<p>

He was bored, but that was a normal day at Pearson Hardman. As usual, Harvey and Louis were bickering loudly over Mike's cubicle. Harvey wanted Mike to finish his case first; Louis was insisting that Mike should work on _his_ inane files because _he_ had put them on Mike's desk long before Harvey's case had even existed.

And so Mike watched the back-and-forth, bored, twirling a highlighter between his fingers. He wouldn't have been able to get any work done while they were arguing a foot away, anyway.

His phone buzzed in the bag at his feet, vibrating against his calf. With a sigh, he reached down to fish it out. But as he brought his arm back up, the inside of his elbow slammed into the arm of his chair, shooting a sharp pain up into his shoulder. Mike gritted his teeth and held his elbow with his other hand.

But then suddenly his head felt heavy, foggy, and the room spun, and Mike only had enough time to realize something wasn't right before his vision tunneled and he fell into darkness.

When he came back to himself, the realization came very quickly that he was slumped over the arm of his chair, his shoulder aching from where he landed on it, and his elbow still twinging with aftershocks. Then he realized that there were hands on his face, cool, gentle; they're supporting his head, holding it up.

It occurred to him to open his eyes after a slight delay, but it took another few seconds for the disorientation to fade. And then he jerked back, surprised to see Harvey kneeling next to his chair. The man's face was too close to Mike's; his hands were on Mike. He looked angry, Mike thought, wincing slightly.

Mike cleared his throat and sat upright in his chair, relieved when Harvey let go of him. He settled low into the seat and felt himself turning red. "Um," he managed, looking around.

Louis was staring at him, wide-eyed, over the wall of the cubicle. The rest of the associates on the floor were peering at him from their desks—although most of them seemed more amused than concerned.

Mike looked at Harvey, who was still at Mike's side, brow furrowed and lips drawn into a severe line. But Harvey didn't say anything.

Louis was the first one to speak. "So what was _that_," he asked, voice a little higher than usual.

"Um," Mike said again, running a hand over his elbow. He saw Harvey's eyes follow the movement and immediately dropped his hand in his lap. "I just… hit my funny bone."

There was silence for another second before a few raucous laughs came from the other side of the room, probably from Gregory and his lackeys. Harvey's head jerked up at the sound, eyes narrowing; but Louis smirked.

Mike knew he was turning even redder.

"You hit your elbow and _fainted,_" Louis said, giving Mike that scary gerbil smile. "_Wow_, Michael, even for you, that's—"

"Louis, don't you have work to do?" Harvey snapped, rising to his feet. He brushed out the wrinkles of his suit, straightened his vest and then locked his eyes on the junior partner, challenging him to stay for another minute, another second even.

The smirk on Louis' face became slightly pained, but it stayed pasted there. "Harvey, we still haven't decided whose work he's—"

"Louis," Harvey said, voice low. There was a threat to it, and Louis seemed to realize it; he huffed and gave Mike another condescending look before he turned on his heel and disappeared down the hall, snapping at the associates to get back to work as he went. They all obeyed, thankfully, although it didn't make Mike feel any better.

He felt himself visibly flinch when Harvey clapped a hand down onto his shoulder. The blank, cold, lawyerly expression was back on Harvey's face. Mike wasn't sure if that was a good sign or a very, very bad one.

"Don't make a habit of passing out on the job," Harvey told him quietly, raising one eyebrow. He straightened his vest and started toward his office. "And I still want those financial records on my desk by tomorrow morning, Ross."

Mike rolled his eyes as soon as Harvey wasn't looking.

He didn't speak to Harvey for the rest of the day—or anyone else, for that matter, given that his head was buried in a pile of financial records that dated back to the 1920's. But Mike did notice that every hour or so, Harvey would walk past his desk, with very little purpose to it; and more than once, Mike caught him staring, always with a sort of apprehension in his expression.

Mike decided to ignore it. But if he hadn't known better, Mike might've thought Harvey was checking up on him.


	2. New York Heat

**The Art of Fainting**

* * *

><p>It was hot in New York City, hotter than normal, and it didn't help that Harvey had scheduled their client meeting at two in the afternoon, just when heat was the worst. The smog of the city kept the heat in and, by the time Mike slid into the back of the town car around 4 pm, he was fairly certain that it was hot enough for someone to cook bacon on the pavement.<p>

He would've rolled down his window if he didn't know how much Harvey hated the wind in his hair. Speaking of Harvey, the man was utterly, unnaturally composed in this heat. He seemed perfectly coiffed, even though they had been standing outside in direct sunlight for the past fifteen minutes while their car pulled up. There wasn't a bead of sweat on his forehead. His suit must've been sewed with an air-conditioning unit inside, or something—or Harvey just grew up in an oven.

Mike, on the other hand, was sweating through his clothes. He loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt as soon as they were out of the client's view. He had about ten minutes until they were back at the office and he would have to look presentable, so he figured he might as well savor the feeling of ventilation while he could.

He peeled off his jacket after another minute, ignoring the look Harvey gave him, focusing instead on trying not to pant too loudly. The heat made him feel breathless, like his chest was tighter than normal. But as soon as he pulled on his tie a little more, he started feeling better.

When they got to Pearson Hardman, Harvey had things on his mind; he went immediately to his office, leaving Mike to meander back to his cubicle. The building had air-conditioning but it was still too hot, especially with this much clothing, and sitting in the confined space of his cubicle made it worse. The briefs Louis had given him seemed to have been printed in size two font; the multicolored highlighters just made him nauseated. And _god_, he was so thirsty.

Five minutes later and the drinking fountains by the bathroom became too tempting to resist. Mike got up, waving into Rachel's office as he passed it. Before he more than a few feet past her door, the door opened and she appeared beside him, pulling on his sleeve.

"Wait, wait," she told him, fiercely enough to make Mike take pause.

He shook his head and pulled at his tie, wishing he could loosen it. "What's wrong?"

"Are you okay?" She seemed to be analyzing his appearance. Then, quietly, she asked, "Are you _high_, Mike?"

"No!" He yanked his arm out of her grip. "Of course not, I said I'd never—"

"What's going on with you, then?" She reached out a hand, pressing the back of her palm against his forehead. "God, you're burning—"

"I'm fine," Mike said, swatting her hand away. He started toward the drinking fountain again, not surprised when she followed him. "It's just hot outside."

"It's almost seventy in here, though."

"But I was _outside_ a few minutes ago." He shrugged one shoulder and wiped his forehead on his sleeve. "I'm fine."

"You look too pale to be _fine_, Mike."

He didn't answer; he was drinking. And then he _kept_ drinking, only pausing enough to breathe between gulps. The water was cool and tasted so good.

Rachel pulled at his shoulder after a minute. "Mike, stop, slow down a little—"

"Jesus, Rachel," he said, shaking his head at her. "Calm down," he told her evenly, and resumed gulping down water.

She let him, this time, but huffed out a sigh and crossed her arms. Eventually, when he finished and stood upright, she raised a brow. "Feel better?"

Mike was about to say _yes_ in the most condescending way possible when his stomach lurched. He felt himself sway on his feet a little—Rachel shot out an arm to support him—and he shut his eyes, bringing a hand to his face. He _did_ feel hot.

"Mike, you need to sit down," Rachel said, trying to tug him toward her office.

He shook his head, and instantly regretted it. His stomach gurgled in the unpleasantly familiar way it did whenever he was about to vomit.

Rachel pulled his arm again. "_Mike_."

He opened his eyes, his hand moving to cover his mouth.

Eyes widening, Rachel swore and manually pivoted him by the shoulders, shoving him through the door of the men's room. She followed him in, one hand on his back, directing him to the stall in the far corner.

Mike gagged once, trying to hold it back as he kneeled—knowing full well that Harvey would kill him for kneeling in the bathroom in a suit—but as soon as he was in front of the toilet, the water he had just swallowed came back up, tinged with the acidic taste of bile. He realized then that he hadn't eaten anything since the morning, and even then he'd only had time for a piece of toast and orange juice.

As the heaving coughs subsided, Mike sat back on his heels, leaning his head against the wall of the stall. He noticed Rachel had left, or at least given him some space, and was glad for it. He felt bad enough; he didn't need an audience.

A few minutes passed and his stomach began to feel uneasy again. Mike shut his eyes, willing his body to calm down, but knowing that throwing up again was inevitable. He shuffled closer to the toilet seat, resting his elbows on the seat, his head in his hands. This was going to suck.

Another minute went by. Mike felt his breathing getting faster, his heart racing, his stomach tying itself into sickening knots again. His skin felt chilly now, damp with a cold sweat that was making his shirt stick to him.

The second wave hit him then, mostly bile this time, leaving him spitting and coughing just to rid the taste from his mouth. But at least he felt slightly better. Weaker, but not nauseated anymore.

Mike was still slumped against the toilet when he felt a hand touch his shoulder. He didn't have the energy to talk to Rachel, or to even open his eyes, really. But then the person behind him sighed; it was a noise he'd heard a thousand times—from Harvey.

Mike felt every muscle in his body tense. His head shot upright, turning too quickly to look back at his boss. "Harvey—"

"Easy, easy," Harvey said, crouching down behind him. The hand he had on Mike's shoulder grabbed him a little tighter, his grip firm and strangely comforting. "Rachel got me."

"I'm fine," Mike said. But even _he_ didn't believe it, especially given that he was hanging over a toilet.

Harvey's eyebrows rose. "Yeah, sure, you're 'fine.'" He smiled, partly in amusement, and partly just to cheer up his associate. "You gonna throw up again?"

Mike felt his shoulders sag. "You were here for that," he guessed.

Harvey gave him an odd look. "No, but you're leaning over a toilet. It's kind of obvious. Unless you are _actually_ a puppy and trying to drink from it, in which case there are more severe problems in your life."

"Ha, ha," Mike said, and groaned, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes.

"You haven't eaten yet today, have you?" Harvey asked, peering into the toilet, where the lack of solid food was obvious. "But maybe that's a good thing. Can you stand?"

Mike let out another groan instead of answering, but rocked back on his heels obligingly. Harvey helped him up, making sure he was steady before he let go; he still kept a hand on him though, just in case.

Mike stepped out of the stall, surprised to see Donna leaning up against the sinks. She gave him a wry smile and handed him a small paper cup of water, which Mike only used to rinse out his mouth before he spit it into the sink. He didn't think swallowing it would've ended well.

They led him to Harvey's office, where Mike all but collapsed into an armchair. He watched silently as Harvey spoke with Donna outside, where Mike couldn't hear them; he had the itching feeling that Harvey was going to scold him about everything soon enough.

Donna saluted Harvey and disappeared down the hall, while Harvey himself came back into the office. He unbuttoned his jacket as he came to a stop a few feet in front of Mike, then shoved his hands in his pockets and waited for Mike to look up.

"Sorry," Mike said, before Harvey could start in on the reprimand. "I know you're busy, and I would've stopped Rachel from bothering you if—"

"Really?" Harvey asked, his voice edged with a laugh of disbelief. "You think that's the problem here?" He shook his head, and held up his hand to stop Mike when the associate opened his mouth again. "I sent Donna to get your stuff." Mike's head jerked up. "You're going to go home, and spend the rest of the day drinking fluids and sleeping. Do you understand?"

Mike nodded, eyes glued to the floor. His skin already felt like it was on fire from the heat, but he knew his cheeks were burning redder than the rest of him. Harvey didn't think he could do _anything_, not in this state.

"Mike, I'm not mad at you," Harvey went on, tilting his head. "If you're sick, you should go home."

Mike looked up again. "I feel fine." It was a lie—he felt like he did before he got sick, but he could manage feeling overheated. "I can still work."

"It's not a matter of if you _can_, it's whether you _should_." He shrugged one shoulder. "If working is what put you into this position, I don't think working _more_ is going to help things."

Mike opened his mouth to say it again, _I'm fine_, but Donna walked into the office just then and handed him his messenger bag.

It took Mike a second to realize why the bag was so light. "This has no files in it," Mike said, indignant. "I can—"

"No," Harvey said sternly, gesturing for him to stand up. "That's all you're getting. C'mon. I'll walk you out."

Mike frowned. He stared at Harvey for another few seconds before he realized the man was _not_ going to let him take work home. Then he let out a sigh—which Harvey rolled his eyes at—and shoved himself off the couch, rising to his feet.

The sudden change in blood pressure didn't hit him until he was already a few steps away from the couch, but when it did, it hit him _hard_. Mike felt like the floor was tilting both ways at once; he stopped walking and audibly drew in a sharp breath. "Harvey," he managed, his tongue heavy in his mouth, his words thick. The walls were closing in around him, making it darker. "I… I'm…"

The next thing Mike felt was a cool hand pressing against his head. It took him another moment to notice that he was lying down on something soft, although he didn't quite remember how he'd gotten there. Slowly, he pried his eyes open.

"You fainted," came Harvey's voice, dry and exasperated. "Again."

Mike's vision cleared, and he saw Harvey sitting in a chair beside him, with Donna hovering over his shoulder. Mike himself was on the couch. He blinked a few times.

"The car's outside, Harvey," Donna said, giving Mike a once-over before she returned to her desk.

Mike swallowed, propping himself up on his elbows. "You have another meeting?" he asked. His mind was hazy, but he would've remembered if Harvey had somewhere to be.

"No," Harvey said. "But you're going home. And you can't make it there on that deathtrap of a bicycle when you're fainting every two seconds." He paused. "But first, you have to _make it_ to the car."

Mike _did_ make it to the car, after another ten minutes of lying on the couch, and then an excruciatingly slow walk to the elevators. Donna _and_ Harvey escorted him, the latter keeping a hand on him the whole time; and Rachel appeared at the last second to check on him as well.

Finally, Mike slid into the back of the town car, almost surprised that Harvey wasn't sliding in after him. Instead, Harvey shut the door behind him and knocked on the front seat's window, leaning down to peer into it once it opened.

"Don't let him out anywhere but the address I gave you," Harvey said. "And make sure he takes his time." He shot Mike a glare. "For his own good."

Later that night, when a knock on the door woke Mike from a fitful nap, he half-expected to see Harvey in the doorway. Instead, it was Donna, with a grocery bag full of Gatorade and Pedialyte. When he told her all of it was unnecessary—but thanks—she just smiled at him, like she knew something he didn't, and left.


	3. Easy Margarita

**The Art of Fainting**

* * *

><p>It really wasn't Mike's fault that the tables at El Vaso Lleno were so comfortable, or made such good pillows, especially after a few margaritas. And the margaritas, along with the power to send him into a blissful state of intoxication, had the fortunate ability to turn Mike's mouth blue, which had amused Rachel to no end.<p>

Now Rachel was dancing a few yards away, giggling with pretty blonde, another paralegal from a different floor. Mike watched them, floating happily in his buzz, with his head in his arms on the table. Rachel's laugh was infectious—her real laugh, when her head tilted back and she let out a peal of genuinely charmed laughter. And her friend was charming too, all long legs and red hair, like a younger—and much less scary—Donna. She had asked him to dance but Mike was perfectly content where he was, just watching.

Everyone was fun to watch, at these firm celebrations. At first they had seemed like a bad excuse to get drunk on company money, but even Jessica was letting loose, doing shots with Harvey at the far corner of the bar.

From what Mike had heard, Jessica was a girl who could hold her liquor, and as far as Mike could see, she was matching Harvey shot-for-shot on what appeared to be Jose. But if Mike knew Harvey—and Mike liked to think he did—he knew Harvey would be going easy on her. Harvey would've done so anyway, but because this was a company party, Harvey was probably taking it easy on his _own_ liver, lest he become the joke of the firm the next Monday.

The chivalry was endearing, though, Mike could say that much. He smiled into his arms, eyes glued on the pair of them as Harvey gulped down another shot, the muscles in his throat visibly moving when he swallowed. His jaw clenched with the afterburn, and then he laughed. Mike couldn't hear it over the sound of the bar, but his mind supplied the sound anyway: a throaty, low laugh, familiar but not typical. It was one of Harvey's rarest laughs—not that Mike studied them, or catalogued them in his spare time—and Harvey usually only laughed that freely when in private with Donna or Jessica.

Mike closed his eyes, sighing. When he was drunk like this, it didn't feel stupid to wish that Harvey would just laugh with _him_ like that, just once, eventually.

Mike must have fallen asleep while imagining the way Harvey's voice rumbled in his chest when he chuckled, because suddenly there was a hand running through his hair, gently tugging on it, pulling Mike back into reality.

He blinked his eyes open, drowsy and still floating on alcohol, and grinned broadly upon seeing Harvey. "Hey," he said, lifting his head.

It was clear time had passed, from the difference in intoxication levels shown by the firm's workers. Rachel and her friend were laughing raucously from the bar, flirting with the bartenders, one of which was female. Jessica was gone, probably having made an elegant surrender to Harvey before leaving. Harold was nearly falling off his barstool across the room, sipping a cosmo, staring openly and hungrily at Gregory. Louis was surrounded by a few of the other associates, gesturing emphatically as he told them a likely-fictitious story about a glory case.

And Harvey—Harvey was still running his fingers through Mike's hair, and it make Mike's hazy mind snap back into place.

Harvey clearly enjoyed the texture of Mike's hair, given the way he kept petting it, letting it slip through his fingers. And Mike was more than happy to let him continue; with Harvey's gaze on Mike's hair, Mike's eyes were free to stare at Harvey himself, in a sort of drunken awe.

If it were possible, Harvey looked more stunning the closer Mike got to him. Mike could see his dimples and the creases at the corners of his eyes. Harvey's irises looked almost black in the barlight, and his eyelashes threw long shadows down his cheeks.

After what seemed like hours, Harvey's eyes met Mike's, and the smile he gave Mike was so open that it threw Mike off-guard for a second.

"You're _drunk_," was all Mike could think to say.

Harvey laughed, the noise coming from deep in his chest, and tightened his fist in Mike's hair. He pulled on it, gently enough that it didn't hurt, but firmly enough that Mike tilted his head back, his face turning up toward Harvey's.

Mike couldn't help but glance at Harvey's lips. They were right there, so close. Mike could feel Harvey's breath on his cheek.

"_I'm _drunk?" Harvey chuckled, and let go of his hair. "_You're_ drunk. Much _more_ drunk."

"You're _petting_ me," Mike pointed out.

"You're a _puppy_." Harvey raised his eyebrows and took Mike's tie between two fingers, tugging on it. "C'mon, pup. You've had enough fun for the night."

Mike obligingly got out of the booth, content to just obey and not ask questions. Harvey led him outside, still holding his tie, and quickly hailed a cab. He slid into the backseat first, yanking Mike in when the associate hesitated on the sidewalk.

"Shouldn't I have gotten a different cab?" Mike asked as soon as Harvey rattled off his address to the cabbie. "Since I live, um, somewhere else?"

"Oh, puppy, puppy, puppy," Harvey sing-songed. He chuckled, tugging twice on Mike's tie before he let it go. "You're my responsibility."

"I can get to my own apartment," Mike argued, his indignant tone lost to the slurred syllables. "I'm _not_ a puppy."

"Maybe you're a kitten, then," Harvey shrugged. "But either way, you're staying in the guest bedroom at my place."

Mike let out a hum and shook his head, too hazy to fight him. He leaned his shoulder against Harvey's. "M'not a kitten. _Or_ a puppy."

The cabbie caught Mike's gaze in the rearview mirror, giving him a judgmental look.

"What?" Mike asked too loudly, and raised his hands. "I'm _not_ a puppy!"

The rest of the ride was mostly silent, because Harvey had dissolved into inaudible-but-hysterical laughter and couldn't seem to calm down until they were out of the cab and through the doors or Harvey's building, Harvey—of course—pulling Mike behind him by the tie. Mike was grinning, though, the sound of Harvey's muffled laughter replaying in his head.

The guard at the security desk didn't even bat an eyelash at the pair. He just nodded to Harvey, who gave him a solemn nod and a low, "Steven."

Mike saluted the guard as he passed. "_Steven_," he said, mimicking Harvey.

The man smirked at that. "A friend, Specter?"

"He wishes," Harvey grinned back. "Just a puppy."

"_Not_ a _puppy_!" But Harvey had already tugged him through the elevator doors. "I'm _not_ a _puppy_, Steven!" Mike shouted as the doors closed.

Harvey clapped a hand over his mouth, frowning, but there was no severity to it. "You'll wake people up, Ross."

Mike narrowed his eyes. As soon as Harvey lifted his hand, Mike hissed, "Not. A. Puppy." Then he blinked. "But I _am_ hungry."

The inside of Harvey's apartment was just as gorgeous as Mike had expected, and it took him a minute to adjust to the lavish décor. He was afraid to touch anything, let alone walk anywhere. He was good at breaking things. He remembered Harvey saying something like that before.

But Harvey was toeing his shoes off; Mike followed suit, and then resumed looking around.

"Clothes," Harvey muttered before pulling Mike into the side hall and leading him up the steps.

The room Harvey went into was his bedroom, Mike realized. That made him stop short. Even with alcohol in his blood, he felt like he was encroaching upon Harvey's life. Harvey's bed was still unmade from when he'd crawled out of it this morning; that detail alone made Mike feel out-of-place, like he was seeing bits of Harvey that the man had never meant for him to see. Harvey had always tried to be Super Harvey, who didn't ever seem to need sleep or rest or water or got depressed or—

A bundle of clothes hit him in the face. Mike caught them and looked at Harvey.

"Those will work for tonight," Harvey told him, and nodded past him into the hallway. "Third door on the right's a bathroom. And the kitchen's downstairs, if you're starving."

Ten minutes later, Harvey was still in his bedroom with the door mostly shut, staring at himself in the mirror, shaking his head at his reflection.

Mike was in his _apartment_.

_Mike_ was in his _apartment_.

Mike was in _his_ apartment.

And it wasn't so strange, Harvey realized, letting out a tense breath. It was actually quite entertaining. And whatever thoughts Harvey was having about the implications of this, Mike likely was just thinking of it all as a slumber party or something, oblivious as usual, and blissfully so.

Harvey nodded at his reflection, and went to find Mike. But Mike wasn't in the kitchen, like Harvey assumed he would be. Mike hadn't been upstairs; Harvey would've heard him rattling about.

"Mike?" Harvey called, suddenly sober. Maybe Mike was worse off than he'd thought. Maybe he'd fainted again—Mike _had_ passed out on the table at the bar—

A soft crunching came from somewhere, breaking up Harvey's thoughts.

"Mike?" he called again, following the sound of it around the corner.

"You really do have a glass elevator," Mike's voice echoed, from—not surprisingly—inside the elevator.

Harvey came closer and saw him then, sitting crosslegged on the floor of the elevator, clad in Harvey's sweatpants and an old ELO shirt, munching on a bowl of cereal. His free hand was on the glass floor, fingers splayed wide, as if he were trying to reach through it and touch the city below.

"Having fun?" Harvey stepped in beside him and pressed the _Door Close_ button. He used the doors as a backrest, sinking down next to Mike, stretching his legs out across the floor.

Mike pivoted to sit facing the same way. He put his cereal aside and pulled his knees to his chest, his arms crossing over the top of them. He sighed, audibly, but in contentment; and Harvey let out a breath, too, relaxing a little more.

"If I lived here," Mike told him, voice quiet, "I think I'd sit here all night and just stare at the city."

"You'd get tired of it," Harvey said.

"No," Mike said. "Never."

And Harvey believed him, with the way Mike was staring out the windows, in a peaceful sort of trance.

The elevator lights dimmed with inactivity, fading to black. Like this, the glass had no reflections; it seemed like they could actually reach out of the elevator. Just them, and the city.

Harvey felt Mike tense beside him, and glanced over in time to see Mike staring down through the seemingly-missing floor.

"You won't fall through," Harvey promised, amusement clear in his tone.

Mike didn't answer for a long time. He looked at Harvey, an odd expression across his features. "It wouldn't matter if I did," he said, more of a sigh than spoken words.

"Why not?" Harvey wasn't concerned; Mike didn't look sad, just thoughtful. The elevator did that to Harvey sometimes, too.

"Because"—Mike smiled softly—"I'd fall with my two favorite things with me."

Harvey cocked his head to one side. "And what two things _are_ these, exactly?"

"New York City," Mike said. And then he stopped, holding Harvey's gaze but saying nothing. Harvey looked back, curious, almost anxious, his pulse speeding up just a little.

Mike huffed out a sigh and dropped his head onto Harvey's shoulder. "And cereal," he said finally. "I _love_ cereal."

"Cereal," Harvey echoed, smirking. He felt Mike nodding against his shoulder.

"Mmhmm." A pause; and then, words slow and drowsy, "Why are you wearing _all_ black, Harvey?" He lifted his head a little, then set it against Harvey's shoulder again. "Are you evil?"

"Why are you wearing _my_ clothes?" Harvey countered. "Are you a puppy?"

Mike's breathing was slowing now, too. He hummed in response; it took him another few seconds to manage words. "I think I might be." Another long pause. "I'm _tired_."

Harvey smiled, fully aware of the affection in it. "C'mon, let's get you up, then." He pressed the elevator's second floor button, wincing at the light that flickered on. Mike whined and buried his face deeper into Harvey's shirt.

"Up, up," Harvey coaxed him when the elevator started moving. "C'mon, Mike." But the associate seemed incapable of moving. So Harvey rolled his eyes—though honestly, he didn't mind; far from it—and scooped Mike up, easily lifting him into his arms. Mike's eyes fluttered open, but he didn't protest.

"How romantic," Mike muttered as the elevator doors _ping_ed open. "Are you going to carry me to your bedroom, Romeo?"

Harvey smirked, trying to dismiss the images his mind had just created. "Not _my_ bedchambers, sorry."

"I'm not the right Juliet?" Mike laughed, a soft, breathy laugh that hit Harvey's neck and made him shiver.

"You're a little too much of a hot mess to be _any_one's Juliet tonight," Harvey managed. He toed open the door to the guest bedroom and flicked the lightswitch with his elbow, then set Mike on the bed.

"I'm a hot mess," Mike echoed dully.

Harvey pulled the covers over him, wondering if Mike would even remember any of this in the morning. He wasn't drunk enough to black out, but he seemed practically asleep already. Harvey dearly hoped that Mike would forget; but some part of him wanted Mike to know what had happened, because if Mike forgot, it would be all too easy for Harvey himself to pretend it never happened.

"Harvey," Mike said, sharply enough to make Harvey stop short. Mike rolled onto his side, staring blearily at him, obviously fighting to stay conscious. "If I'm a hot mess, can I at least be _your_ hot mess?"

Harvey felt a twinge in his chest; he felt warmer, more at peace, than he could attribute to the alcohol, and he wasn't naïve enough to deny the reason for it.

"Mike," he said, "haven't you noticed?" He flicked off the light. "You already _are._"

— — — — — — — — — —

Mike groaned into consciousness, throwing an arm over his eyes. There was too much light filtering in through his eyelids, and it was strangely coming from the opposite direction it normally did, like his window had migrated.

It took him another minute to remember that he was in Harvey's apartment, and instantly he shot upright, eyes flying open. His head ached with a hangover but what hurt even more was the memory of what had happened—god, he was an embarrassment to mankind.

He had yelled a security guard, buried his face in Harvey's shoulder, asked if Harvey was bringing him to his 'bedchambers,' and if his memory served, he had also spent a large portion of the night staring into Harvey's eyes.

But Harvey had put up with it, Mike realized. He had _catered_ to it, even. Hell, Harvey had _carried_ him to bed. If Mike had anything to be embarrassed about, at least he could shoulder some of the humiliation off on Harvey, who had tolerated his shenanigans.

It took Mike a few minutes to will himself out of bed. He glanced in the long mirror on the bedroom wall, raking his hand through his hair; his appearance was beyond helping. So he just sighed and went downstairs.

Harvey was in the kitchen with his back turned, very obviously cooking from the smell and the sound of sizzling. Mike padded closer; Harvey had showered, too, if the spicy scent of bodywash was any indication. And he had changed, which Mike didn't mind at all. The white t-shirt and plaid pajama pants clung to Harvey in all the right places, making Mike wonder if it was all the fancy tailoring that made Harvey's suits look elegant, or if it was really just the impeccable shape the man kept himself in.

Mike let himself stare at Harvey's ass for a few seconds before he perched on one of the stools at the breakfast counter and said, "I still can't believe you have a glass elevator."

Harvey tensed in surprise and glanced over his shoulder, giving Mike a once-over before he turned back to the stove. "You look like you're still drunk."

Mike smiled, resting his elbows on the counter. "I wish. Then maybe I wouldn't have a headache."

"To your left."

"What?" Mike looked to his left, where on the end of the counter sat a bottle of pain relievers and a tall glass of what looked and fizzed like ginger ale. "You really _are_ a boy scout, aren't you?"

"I'm not sure our scoutmasters ever taught us how to cure hangovers," Harvey said. He pulled two plates out of the cupboard and scooped food onto each one while Mike gulped back a few aspirin. "Hungry?"

"Not really." But as soon as Harvey pushed a plate of scrambled eggs, toast, bacon and sliced banana towards him, Mike's stomach growled loudly.

Harvey laughed and handed him a fork, pulling up his own stool across the counter from Mike.

"Why aren't _you_ hungover?" Mike asked through a mouthful of eggs.

"Because _I_ can hold my liquor." Harvey smirked. "You smell like stale-tequila cologne."

Mike's head jerked up. Of course he smelled like last night, especially since in comparison Harvey had just stepped out of the shower. He didn't think he smelled or looked too offensive, but apparently he was wrong.

Mike put his fork down and pushed away from the counter, getting down from his stool. "I can, uh, go change—"

"Mike, I was kidding," Harvey said quickly. Mike stopped. "I mean, you _do_ smell like a bar," he amended, "but it's fine. It's expected."

Mike looked unconvinced.

"Will you just sit down?" Harvey shook his head. "There aren't any clients here, and _I_ don't really give a damn about your appearance."

"You always do at the office," Mike muttered.

"_Sit_," Harvey ordered.

Hesitating for a second longer, Mike obliged and climbed back up on the stool.

"Good boy."

Mike shot him a glare, but there was no venom in it. "Did I _really_ yell at that security guard?" he asked after a minute.

Harvey's laugh should've made Mike feel more humiliated, but it just made him smile back. "Steven asked me about you this morning," Harvey said, taking a sip of his coffee. "He asked why I don't bring friends around more often, if they're all as hilarious as you were."

Mike chuckled, and then realized something. "Did you go somewhere?" He looked at his wrist and remembered he'd taken off his watch. "What time is it, anyway?"

"Almost eleven," Harvey answered, shrugging. "I didn't really have much in my fridge, so I went out."

The way Harvey said that was nonchalant, but it made Mike feel like someone had knocked the wind out of him. Harvey had gone to get food _for him_, specifically for them to have breakfast—to have breakfast _together_. A normal grocery run could've waited until Mike left. And there was no reason that Mike _had_ to eat at Harvey's apartment; Harvey could've just as easily kicked him out unfed.

Mike stared at his plate. Harvey had done this for _him_.

He didn't quite know how to feel about that. Happy, of course. But it was complicated. And confusing.

"Wait, did you say _eleven_?" Mike asked, jolting in his seat. "Shit—"

Harvey's brow furrowed. "You have somewhere to be? It's a Saturday—"

"No, I know, I just—" He sighed, shoveling one last forkful of eggs into his mouth. "I'm supposed to meet Jenny somewhere at noon."

An odd expression worked through Harvey's features, but it was gone in an instant. "Oh?" Harvey said, his lips turning up in a wry smile.

"Shit, _shit_," Mike muttered, hopping off his stool. "Sorry!" he called over his shoulder, racing upstairs.

He had never changed so fast in his life. His clothes were a little wrinkled but passable—and it was a Saturday morning anyway, all sorts of hungover-looking people were probably crawling about New York—and anyway, they were all he had. For a brief second he considered giving an outfit of his to Harvey, to keep in this apartment, just in case Mike needed it, but the sane part of his brain told him only couples did that.

Mike slipped on his watch as he rushed back downstairs, nearly tripping over himself in the process. Harvey was still sitting at the counter, reading a magazine as he finished his breakfast. He looked up when he heard Mike approach.

"If you're going to lunch with your girlfriend, you might want to shower first," Harvey said, eyeing him up and down. There was a bitter note to his voice that Mike didn't quite understand.

"She's not my girlfriend," Mike said, grabbing the toast off of his plate. "I'm helping her pick out an apartment today."

"Mmhm." He sounded dubious.

"She's _not_ my _girlfriend_," Mike said more firmly.

Harvey just stared at him.

"Look, whatever," Mike sighed, starting toward the door. "Thanks for breakfast, and—y'know—everything. I'll call you later. I think I left my cereal in the elevator, just so you know."

"I think you left some of your dignity in there, too," Harvey muttered, staring hard at his magazine.

Mike rolled his eyes and left.

It was only when he finally got to his own apartment that he realized two things simultaneously. One, he'd forgotten his best tie at Harvey's place. And two—which he realized with a flood of mortification—he had actually told Harvey, _I'll call you later_, like he was some one-night-stand running off on Harvey before breakfast was even over.

Mike collapsed on his couch, ignoring the call of the shower for a minute.

He didn't know how the hell it had happened, but the memory of the entire time at Harvey's felt intense and unexpected, almost personal. And Mike knew he had ruined it, somehow, whatever _it_ was. He had the distinct feeling that things would've gone very differently if he hadn't mentioned Jenny; but he had, and then he'd left, and now it seemed like Harvey was angry with him.

Mike let out a deep sigh.

"Shit."


End file.
